


Hearth

by finangler



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Astral Projection, Emotional Baggage, Fic Gift Exchange, Hypothermia, M/M, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:51:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finangler/pseuds/finangler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They may not always have each other, but they'll always have this.  <i>(Written for prompt: Charles has been out in the cold all day. Erik warms him up with soup, cocoa, a bath, and...other creative ways.)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hearth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueteak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueteak/gifts).



> Not beta’d due to time constraints. But hopefully it’s what you were anticipating! It...kind of ended up being more introspective than I had originally planned. AU, strictly in the sense that I place the movie in winter. Otherwise, is canon compliant.

Winter, Charles Xavier readily concedes, is not a season for which he is suited. Although he categorically rejects Raven’s reason (“delicate”, indeed), even he can not deny that his willowy frame and poorly insulated build makes the cold bite of winter all the more unpleasantly intense for him.

It had been one of the few drawbacks of returning to England to attend Oxford; the notorious chill of the English clime had resulted in the accumulation of any number of jumpers, waistcoats, and heavy blazers, for which Raven feels the unrepentant urge to tease him. He doesn’t mind the gentle jabs; they are a familiar and easy terrain with his sister that seem unlikely to lead to one of her now more-common-than-not unpredictable flares of temper.

One of said flares being the reason that Charles has chosen to take refuge on one of the more ancient balconies located off of one of the lesser-utilized wings of the manor. Mottled an aged green and gray, the stone is being slowly overtaken by choking ivy left to overgrow out of negligence. Behind him, Charles hears through the open balcony doors the gentle snapping of mildewed dust covers moving with the crisp November breeze. Although no snow dusts the grounds, the air is piercing, reminding him of the times when he would sneak out onto this very balcony as a boy. He always chose the most obscure and disused areas of the house when he was hiding. Hiding from Kurt, from Cain.

But never before from Raven.

From Erik.

******

“We’re all training here, Charles. Why not you?” Charles easily hears the challenge in her voice as she snaps it. More, he feels acutely, vicariously, her disappoint in him.

Whilst searching fruitlessly amongst the dust-laden rooms for where the long-dismissed staff had left all of the blankets (for the children; they need to be kept warm and comfortable for the oncoming winter) in order to fight off the inexorable chill that only old mullioned stone can acquire.

He does not mean to stumble upon Erik and Raven, embroiled in, what would appear to your average outsider, a compromising position. Indeed, his telepathy should have made sensing their communal presence in the unused ballroom all too easy. But, Raven has grown so...sensitive about his tentative forays into her moods and thoughts. What once was permitted with all the enthusiasm of youth and shared discovery, is now the cause of harsh and betrayed glares from his sister. He tells himself it’s simply the price of growing older, growing independent. The loss stings, nonetheless.

And Erik...

Well, Charles doesn’t dare tread there without permission, first.

Even now that they are...intimate, and engaging in what can only be politely termed “amorous activities”, Charles finds himself asking over and over again before each tentative breach against the battlements of Erik’s mind. Each time, Erik gives in, graciously, but there is always that initial resistance.

Hesitation.

Charles has never had a lover like Erik before. Gender notwithstanding, Charles has never been with anybody less than utterly enthusiastic about being with _him_. Gentle probes of Erik’s mind their first time together (a cheap, but serviceable, hotel room as they drive along the I-40 in search of a mutant who can supposedly control water) reveals reluctance and a willful unwillingness to get attached. Worse, _fear_.

This, coupled with the presence of three young and active men thinking about what active young men _always_ think about, and...well. He takes greater cares to reign himself in, now that they have moved into his old family home; more so than he had ever done while living there as a child. And so, he cavalierly enters through the main ballroom doors, only to see his sister totally nude. And blue.

“Raven!" It takes a few spluttering attempts to get his protest going. “Clothes. Immediately, please. How many times must we discuss this? You can’t walk around looking like...”

“Like what?” she turns to him, giving him a not-at-all-obscured view of glittering blue scales smattered across smooth, azure flesh. She is outlined by the bright sunlight streaming in from the _completely open_ floor to ceiling windows. The light shines on her skin, an uneven sapphire color.

He quails at the sight of his baby sister’s....everything, and demurs with: “Like you are now.”

It is utterly the wrong thing to say, on top of not being at all what he means. The disapproving slant of Erik’s eyes and lips only serve to make him feel even worse. Makes him feel yet even more flustered.

Raven’s face contorts in hurt before she rallies, yellow eyes narrowing. “I’m practicing, Charles. You know...with my mutation? Erik’s trying to help me improve my control.” The emphasis on Erik’s name creates the unspoken accusation: _“since *you* won’t.”_

“Raven, there’s a difference between learning to control your mutation and learning to...” Charles waves a slightly spastic hand in her general direction as he can’t even think of the appropriate word to use to describe your younger sister’s nude forays into self-expression.

“Learning to like it?” Corrugated fingers rest on full hips as she leans forward in awkward belligerence. “Maybe I don’t want to just control it into a blond blue-eyed doll, Charles, did you think of that?” She looks at him so, so desperately, as she always does when this topic arises. And Charles finds himself floundering now, as he ever does. Charles slants a glance to Erik, silently begging for help.

Erik always knows the words and actions to bolster her, while also calming her. Charles has to tamp down on vicious surges of jealousy every time this proves true, while also worrying about the reckless attitude Erik encourages in Raven, without seeming to consider the consequences for her. But Charles believes that it is better for her to feel as though she can talk to Erik, rather than feel like she can talk to nobody.

This was, naturally, before discovering the nude nature of said sympathizing.

Erik, it seems, is going to be of no use. Instead, he holds himself preternaturally still, in that manner that Charles has only ever seen Erik accomplish. Eyes narrow and arms folded not at all casually over his chest as he leans against one of the mirrored walls of the ballroom, he gives the distinct impression of a man waiting to see how Charles will respond. And that he is not expecting to be impressed by Charles’ response. Charles finds himself utterly at a loss for words, as well as feeling unfairly set upon by the two people he loves most.

“Raven,” he begins in a conciliatory manner, unsure how he will find himself finishing.

“Oh, never mind,” she interrupts with up-flung arms, exasperation bordering on despair. Charles aches to find the right thing to say. Instead, she storms past him, a telltale slithering whisper of air alerting Charles to the fact that she is shifting back into her human persona. He turns his head to follow her and is relieved to discover that she has shifted sufficiently to create the illusion of not only her human form, but her human clothes as well. It is an impressive improvement, but he doesn’t think she would appreciate hearing it from him now. Later, perhaps, as always.

As she pulls open the heavy door, she whips her head over her shoulder, blond locks swinging with the momentum. (Or are they really hair?, Charles wonders. Will they feel like hair if he touches them?)

“We’re all training here, Charles. Why not you?” She is gone in the next instant, and Charles is left to stare after her, completely at a loss. He turns back toward Erik, only to see the man himself walking toward him. No, past him. As he passes, he pats Charles’ shoulder lightly, sardonically. Casting him a provocative gaze and a sarcastic turn of the mouth, he asks: “Why not, indeed?”

The closing door echoes behind Erik, and Charles is left alone.

******

As Charles leans against the balcony balustrade, frozen stone burning a cold fire against his arms, even through his cardigan sleeves, he easily sees where he had gone wrong with Raven in the ballroom. And, due to Raven’s idealistic solidarity, where he had gone wrong with Erik, by extension. Were he a better man, he would be able to clearly articulate how little the re-emergence of Raven’s blue form matters to him. Or that the only thing coloring his view of her, is his very real fear for her.

Years of experience amongst his own family members taught him thoroughly that, just because things _should be_ a certain way, doesn’t mean that they will be made so by force of will alone.

If they were, he would have had a mother that loved him and a step-family who didn’t beat him.

He also wants to be able to clearly state that he is no fool; that he knows what Erik and Raven want from him. Raven’s impatient tantrums are difficult enough, but now his and Erik’s chess matches are taking on a dangerous tone. Erik challenges him, as he always does. It is a trait Charles loves; the sharp questions and unwillingness to accept rote answers as complete remind Charles of the liveliest of debates at university.

But Erik is growing less accepting of Charles’ assurances. He openly rejects Charles’ generally positive impression of humanity, and predicts disturbing scenarios that Charles has no ready plans for. He makes veiled comments at the frailties of humanity. Or of Charles Xavier. Or both. Charles feels as though he is losing control.

Worse, he feels as though he is losing Erik. How much longer can they go until Charles’ words fail him completely, as they had this morning in the ballroom? How much can shared physical intimacy tie Erik to him? That Charles has fallen in love with Erik is apparent. That Erik returns that love is less so. Charles could ask. Could pry the thought from his mind, if he wishes. But Charles is too afraid to hear the answer, and so chooses to bluff his way through their encounters.

Erik would no doubt call him a coward. And Charles can’t help but agree. If he weren’t such a coward, perhaps he could find better words to make Erik and Raven understand the world as he sees it; _feels_ it through the eyes of others.

This world is full of misery, of heartbreak, of hate and pain. And Charles can not bear to be the cause of more.

Charles shakes himself; these thoughts are defeating and self-pitying. It is time to be the leader Charles prods Erik into helping him become. Time to answer Raven’s challenge.

Fortuitously, a passing motorist drives past the gated, subtly forbidding gates of the manor. The driveway is obscenely long, yet Charles can sense his presence as easily as if he were right next to him on the balcony. His thoughts are mundane: anxiety over an expected child (his first) and the extra shifts the young man will have to pick up in order to support his growing family. But underneath it is a bright, exultant joy; love, unreserved and all-enveloping, for a person that he has yet to meet. It is beautiful and warms Charles from within, so much as to make the bumps pebbling his freezing skin seem far away.

He follows the car with his mind, just that bit further. He follows it down Graymalkin, round the corner, miles and miles away to the interstate. He wonders, idly, just how far he can go. He follows it. Follows it and follows it and follows it, until it brushes against that invisible borderline that seems to indicate the limit of how far Charles can go.

But that tiny love and obscure anxiety is still there, just shining beyond the physical distance. And so, he _pushes._ Until he is a hundred, two hundred miles away, following that warmth like a signal fire.

Until he brushes against a space that he has only felt very few times in his life.

It had terrified him the first time it had happened. The feeling of no longer having a body, of feeling no sensation whatsoever. Of being in a place where he could hear everything and nothing all at once. Where there were no other minds, and yet, they were there, waiting to be touched by him. A dark deep void, empty of any discernible feature but so…full. Of voices, of presence…

It is a feeling that has only been broached by Cerebro. But even that can not compare.

As he grew older, and more secure in his powers, he had researched the sensation in more detail. Many of the burgeoning pseudo sciences made reference to such an experience. Fancifully calling it “astral projection”, Charles can find similarities in the descriptions. But he hasn’t dared try to purposefully achieve such a state.

But now...now it is almost like freedom. He can go anywhere he wants, nobody the wiser. Charles feels an instant regret that he had not indulged in such liberation when he had been an unhappy, solitary boy, hiding away from the violence and derision of those that had hated him within his own home.

He wonders if this is how Raven feels, now.

The man in his car has long since gone, moved beyond Charles’ focus, but not out of his range. Charles can keep going. Does.

He wants to go further, beyond this world and on and on and on and...

And he might never find his way back. Charles realizes abruptly that he has gone too far. In a brief flare of panic, he realizes he can no longer remove himself from...whatever overflowing void he has discovered.

He flails about with his telepathy, searching for something familiar to ground himself. Would even accept New York’s November chill and its accompanying pain as an anchor. He almost sobs in relief when he finds the passing motorist’s glowing flare.

He grabs at it like a lifebuoy, exultant at the familiarity of it. It’s even stronger now, burning so bright that it’s almost blinding. It’s a warmth so pervasive, Charles fancies he can feel it in his _bones._ It’s a love so pure, so fierce, Charles can feel his eyes stinging. Although he knows it’s dangerous, he moves even closer, until bright light expands to fill up his sight. He can stay here forever.

The light feels so encompassing that Charles starts as it narrows. Narrows and narrows until it separates into two, three, four separate lights. Their glow reflects off the face of a stranger; one as well known as any of Charles’ own relations.

Charles watches as a young, hungry Erik lights the candles of a menorah with his mother. Watches as the lights leave unflattering hollows on her already hollowed cheeks.

Watches as the light becomes the fire in the grate of his own study. It, too, lights up the hollows of Charles’ own cheeks. Gives an unexpected sheen to his very blue eyes as he laughs at one of Erik’s wryly observant commentaries.

The light glints off of his own pale skin as a stray patch of streetlight streams in through an incautious crack left in the drawn motel curtains and onto the bed.

And sensuously echoing it all is...love. Pure and unreserved.

 _Oh, Erik._

“Charles?”

*****

The sky overhead is dark now, stars not yet piercing the blackness, but it will not be much longer before they begin to speckle they night sky. He must be lying on his back. He can’t be sure however; he has gone quite numb from the cold and the pressure of stone floor against his back is much less obvious than it otherwise would be.

Charles breathes in creakingly, as if the very air has grown heavier. His exhales form light mists in front of his eyes.

“Charles, are you alright?” For Erik, his voice is practically a panic, for all its calm efficiency.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine, my friend.” And he is.

“What the hell was that?” Erik’s large hands slide underneath Charles’ back, levering him upright. Stumbling for words as to how to explain it, he opts for silence. His head, heavy with dizziness, makes it difficult to remain sitting.

“What were you doing out here?”

“Thinking.” The grunt and glare that Erik sends him signals to Charles just how much Erik’s idea of “thinking” differs from Charles’.

“What time is it?” He is surprised at how dry his voice sounds. Late, then.

“Almost 5. How long have you been out here?” A firm grip under his triceps heaves Charles onto shaky legs. The calluses on Erik’s hand scrape roughly on the wool of Charles’ jumper.

“Um, since last we spoke, I think.” Erik’s look is eloquent. Charles feels, bright and red, Erik’s irritation; he thinks Charles a spoiled child. A man never forced to learn how dangerous and terrible the cold can be. Erik feels Charles is spoiled, foolish for not fearing something that could take fingers and had pitilessly preserved what corpses were left unburned in the camps, visible to all.

But there, underneath Erik’s irritation, like a foundation of paint visible through a topmost, thinner layer, is that light. That suffusing, beautiful warmth which had summoned him home.

“I see. Let’s get you inside then.”

*******

Charles quickly finds himself deposited on the edge of his own bed. Charles’ head is still cloying and dizzy from near hypothermia, and he closes his eyes. He barely reacts, except to lean closer into Erik’s thigh, as a thick blanket is wrapped around his shoulders.

“Thank you,” he mumbles. He lifts his hands to lightly stroke Erik’s woollen trousers in affection, only to hiss as the warmth of the room causes his numb fingers to tingle unpleasantly. His exposure has made them clumsy and slippery, and he can’t bend them to clutch Erik’s trousers, as he had intended to. He makes as if to shake them, when longer, harder fingers wrap around his own. Erik has dropped to his knees on the floor in front of the bed, and he uses his new proximity to slowly slip Charles’ fingers into his mouth.

 _To prevent frostbite,_ Charles’ mind riotously supplies.

Charles’ eyes widen as he watches. The soft body warmth warms his fingers, and the sheer shocking sensuality of the gesture leaves Charles’ already muddled mind even further stymied. The fingers pop out of Erik’s mouth, and the fingers from his other hand soon replace them with an obscene wet sound.

Moments pass, with Erik staring up at Charles through hooded eyes, concern pushing gently at Charles’ mind. Still so enraptured by his foray into the world at large, Charles forgets to rein in his telepathy. He doesn’t even know if he can, anymore.

Feeling the warmth of concern and care sparking and glowing from within Erik, he chooses to keep it free.

His fingers are once again released and Erik reaches forward and silently begins unbuttoning Charles’ cardigan and then his shirt. Erik’s fingers, usually very sure, slip and Charles can barely feel them against cold-deadened skin. It isn’t long before he is fully nude, Erik’s hands making quick and efficient work of the job. This is no teasing seduction. And yet, it is. For Charles feels as desired as he ever has writhing on a bed or brushing teasing hands on another.

It is a feeling that does not diminish, even as Erik leaves him to run a bath in the palatial tub in the adjoining bathroom. Nor does it diminish as Erik settles him into said tub, admonishing him to soak.

The bathwater is tepid, Charles logically knows, but it borders on painful. He sits as still as possible, letting his eyes slip closed. He reaches out with his mind, following Erik from one end of the house to the other, headed toward the kitchen. After his sojourn that afternoon, this is absurdly simple. He follows Erik’s own mind, reveling in the deep well of affection, wrapping himself in it, until he has so lost himself in it, that he physically starts when Erik reappears at his side.

“Drink this,” Erik commands, gently setting a glass of something warm (cocoa, Charles discovers joyously upon sipping the brew) into his numb, bloated fingers.

“Thank you,” Charles sighs, tilting his head back in ecstasy. Warm water trickles down the back of his head, as Erik pours a cup of the bathwater gently over Charles’ scalp.

“I love you, you know.” Charles could blame it on the cold. On hypothermia. On the gravity of the moment. But he doesn’t.

“I know.” Erik busies himself with rubbing Charles’ shoulders, trying to massage feeling back into them.

“I know you love _me,_ too.” Charles looks him in the eyes, and brings a red finger up to Erik’s own temple. He taps it pointedly. “I’ve seen it.”

“It’s about time,” Erik responds, leaning forward to kiss him lightly on the forehead.

Later, when Charles presses his still cold nose against the sinew of Erik’s throat (much to Erik’s snorting amusement) as Erik slides inside him, Charles thinks: “This must last.”

Erik whispers back: “This _will_ last.”


End file.
